Enough
by foxy.witch
Summary: It's been a year since the infamous red eye flight and Lisa Reisert has come a long way. But as a new threat emerges and old ones return, she will be tested as she never has before. A story of redemption, trust, and the quest for the truth. Starring: some familiar faces and a whole new cast of characters. A continuation of my one-shot with the same title.
1. Prologue

**4th August 2005**

 **6.37am**

 _"_ _We'll talk again."_

Red. And blue. A hypnotic cocktail of colour flashing repeatedly on the whitewashed walls of her skull. Red. Like her hair. Blue like his–

No.

It was over. One giant of a paramedic had hoisted his limp limbs onto a stretcher and the other had strapped him in. As they were leaving, her father had yelled to them, "don't let that bastard live." With heads bowed, they slammed the ambulance doors shut behind them and left the slow sound of silence in their wake.

Finally, he was gone.

The police hadn't arrived immediately. After the chaos of the Lux Atlantic, every officer had been called in. However, once details had begun to surface and the first blockades of damage control were in place, eventually the ones not needed urgently were sent out to every other emergency call. The senior officer had taken one glance at the front door, or more accurately, the SVU where the front door should have been, and called in reinforcements and the forensics department.

A jacket was hung on her shoulders. After that, there were questions and statements. A game, a tennis match, monotonous back and forth.

"Miss?" The voice surfaced her from the murky depths of her mind.

"Sorry, yes?"

"There's a car waiting to take you to the hospital, should you require further treatment." Lisa looked at the faceless policeman, just one in a swarm of uniforms, and realised with a prick of guilt he'd been trying to get her attention for a while. She shook her head to clear the remaining fog.

"Actually, I need to go to the Lux Atlantic."

The policeman paused, then distracted by his radio, nodded, "was going there afterwards anyway."

There was method to her madness. The attending coroner, the only medical professional available since the ambulance officers had already left, had given her a once over and swiftly taped the cut on her forehead. She suggested Lisa should check into emergency for further tests, just in case the bruised ribs turned out to be something more serious.

Her father materialised at her side. He squeezed her shoulder and told her he was coming with her to the Lux Atlantic. She shook her head. "Nonsense dad, you need to go to a hospital. You have to get your head checked out. I'm ok for now. I'll see you soon."

"Are you– " He stopped suddenly, smiled, and shook his head. "Go," he said, "I'll see you at the hospital for your own check up." He gave her a look that said no excuses.

She grinned, the first in a long time, and nodded.

Walking out the front door amidst the commotion was like waking from a dream. Lights flashing the same blood red and electric blue and disembodied voices spouting police codes and updates from radios. The few police that could be spared covered her front lawn in a bizarre moving blanket of black and white. The squad car door was opened for her and she moved to get in, glancing briefly at a second ambulance that had just parked on her lawn, it's driver gesturing animatedly with another policeman. Blinking, she slid into the squad car, and breathed deeply as it pulled away from the curb.

 **5th September 2005**

 **9.34am**

A month since the Lux Atlantic Incident and the police and the FBI had nothing. Sure, they had the same questions, the same answers, the same air-huffed-through-nose frustration. Lisa had re-lived the Red Eye flight a thousand times over and had nothing to show for it.

But today the questions took a new direction.

"How long had you been working at the Lux Atlantic before the incident?"

"Six years. Please, we've been _over_ this. It's all in the file–"

"I'm aware of what's in the file Miss Reisert. Please, remain calm. Had you ever been approached by someone, such as this Rippner, with a similar request?"

"It wasn't a _request,_ it was a _threat_. He threatened to _kill_ my father–"

"Have you been or are you a member of any communities or congregations with strong political ideals?"

Something clicked, a cog shifted in her brain, a warning flashed up on a computer screen. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened, none of which went unnoticed by Agent Whateverhisnamewas as he swiftly catalogued her face. "Is this an interrogation?"

"This is standard procedure Miss Reisert. I am merely asking you questions."

 _Yeah,_ she thought, _standard procedure for a suspect._

The faceless, nameless agent cleared his throat and continued, "Now, this Rippner character–"

"He's not a _character_ , I didn't just _make up_ this monster–"

"–How long had you known him prior to your engagement?"

Her heart stuttered. A pin dropped somewhere in the Antarctic and she could feel each vibration in her bones. Yet the word, once it had passed through the whirlwind of her emotions and finally reached her tongue, was merely a murmur.

"Engagement?" Her mouth was dry.

"Miss Reisert, answer the question."

 _I am not having this conversation. This is not happening right now. Oh my god._

But she was. It was.

 _God isn't home right now, but if you'd like to leave a message––_

Lisa Reisert rose from her chair, determination in the set of her shoulders. "I will not incriminate myself any further, as you seem so keen for me to do. Our _conversation_ is over. If there is nothing further, I'll be leaving, and anything else you or any other _agent_ has to say to me shall be in the presence my attorney."

She left without a backward glance.

 **February 9th 2006**

 **11.09am**

There was a small, inner voice that tried to tell her she was mistaken. Tried to tell her she was being paranoid. But as she took another left and a quick right, she couldn't shake the heavy feeling that someone was watching, someone was following, someone was waiting just beyond her line of sight. A monster lying in wait. And sure, it could've be sleep-deprivation – it could just be the paranoia talking – but if she was honest with herself, and she was in the habit of being so these days, she had been through enough to know the difference between a fright and real fear.

She took a shortcut through a supermarket, then doubled back. For a brief moment, she was caught in a cloud of cologne that screamed monster. Shaking her head, she slipped onto the street and into the sun to burn the sudden image of blue eyes from her mind. When she finally did make it to her car, she took three more detours on her way home.

She didn't go out very much for the next week.

When she finally did leave, it was with a molotov cocktail of fury and determination in her gut, and clarity of purpose. She walked out of the department store with a new duffle bag, the essentials to fill it, and a surge of accomplishment tinged pink with pride.

She would live her life. No more hiding. Enough was enough.

After being certified and having several sessions on the gun range, she was the responsible owner of a brand new Glock 19.

She was making good on that promise: that she'd never let it happen again. Ever.

 **3rd August 2006**

 **5.29pm**

On the 6th of February, six months after an expensive and exhaustive investigation, the case was filed as LXJ747: Unsolved. Officially, the media was told America wouldn't stand for it. That the FBI was closing in. That this would never happen again. That there would be justice. Unofficially, they had nothing. Evidence was circumstantial at best and they had no suspect, no motive, and, most importantly, no body.

Because there was no Jackson Rippner – there never was.

Surveillance was scoured over but revealed nothing, only more questions and less patience. On the day in question and during the time frame, Lisa Reisert was indeed seen running through the airport, however, there was no evidence of a pursuer. Every camera and every possible angle was checked and checked again, and all relinquished the same results: Miss Reisert, dangerously erratic, single-handedly causing widespread panic and disturbing the general public.

The witnesses mentioned in Miss Reisert's statement, two flight attendants and a passenger, denied any knowledge of the suspect in question. One woman in particular, identified only as a Ms. De Angeles, denied ever seeing or speaking to a "Jackson Rippner", let alone having him assist with her luggage.

When the ambulance arrived, there was no body, at least no body with multiple GSW's as described in both Mr. Reisert and Miss Reisert's statements. The only body accounted for at the Reisert house was that of one Markus Dresden, an accountant from Michigan visiting Miami on vacation. He was killed when Miss Reisert ran him through her front door with a vehicle she illegally obtained at the airport.

In layman's terms, the case was a mess, and no one wanted it. With Homeland's blessing, Case LXJ747 was filed away.

It just didn't stay that way.

It was 5:30 on a Friday evening and the lucky boys of the FBI Counter-Terrorism Unit were getting an early mark.

"Night Al, see you next Saturday?"

"Sure Rob. Say a howdy hi hello to your delightful Jane for me and thank her for the cookies. Sam and Jess loved them." Agent Crawford smiled crookedly and picked up his keys.

Special Agent Robert Lawson stowed his gun and badge and grinned. "No worries Al, g'night."

Lawson turned to his partner and surveyed the the grave of paperwork the kid seemed intent on burying himself in. "You coming grasshopper? Or you pulling another late one?"

Special Agent Andrew Blair didn't even look up from his desk. "Don't look at me like that. I'm onto something."

The older man sighed. "It's been a year kid. Maybe it's time to let it rest? Come back to it later with a clearer head."

"Leave it? And lose the lead? I know what you're thinking Lawson, and believe me I'm not nuts. I know I'm onto something. There's just something about… And I know I'm this close…" Blair searched for a pen in the chaos he called a desk, seemingly completely oblivious to the one behind his ear.

Lawson shook his head. "Yeah well, when you finally stop wearing your ass as a hat and actually find this elusive _something_ , you lem'me know, alright? Night Blair."

"Night Lawson." Blair smirked, then said nonchalantly, "Say hi to Jane for me."

It had the desired effect. "What _is_ it with you boys and my lady fair, hmm? Gonna have to start beating ya'll away with a stick." With that, he grumbled out of the office.

Blair smiled as his partner left with a final back-handed wave. He looked around the office once, twice, reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the photograph. Her photograph.

And he knew what he had to do. What he was always going to do.

Special Agent Andrew Blair got into his car at 5.47pm and arrived at Lisa Reisert's house ten minutes faster than his Nav said he would. He blamed traffic and tried to ignore his thundering heart.

 **4th August 2006**

 **2.59am**

"No scrambled eggs Miss Reisert? No comedy marathon?" He laughed softly, "My, my, haven't you come a long way."

He chuckled in the dark, drummed his fingers on the pristine leather interior. "Guess ol' Jackie boy got to you more than we thought. And here I was thinking his notes were gonna to help."

He re-focused his scope. "Look at you, a whole new animal."

He started his engine. "Won't be long now." He put down his scope, glanced once more at her house, before pulling away into the night.

"See you soon, Miss Reisert."


	2. Chapter 1

**Today**

 **September 3rd 2006**

 **8.30am**

Lisa Reisert sings along with the silky voice lilting languidly from her dock. A contented smile plays upon her lips as she sways to the music in her kitchen. She turns the gas down on her poached eggs just as her toast pops, and bumping the cutlery draw shut with her hip, sets the silverware by the plate. Buttering the toast, she places the poached eggs on top and the bacon on the side, and pours the rich black coffee.

Perfect.

Lisa sits down, takes a bite of her scrumptious breakfast, and unfolds the morning's newspaper. Her coffee mug halts a mere breath from her lips. A smaller headline at the bottom right-hand corner of the front page catches her eye. Her brows crease. Placing her untouched coffee back on the table, Lisa leans closer and is in the process of turning to page twelve when the doorbell rings.

Tucking an auburn curl behind her ear, Lisa walks to the door and pulls it open. She finds nothing but her empty front porch.

If something like this had happened a year ago, Lisa would have thought nothing of it.

A lot can happen in a year.

Poking her head the slightest inch out, she scans both sides beside the door. Nothing. Snatching her letter opener from the hall table just inside the doorway, Lisa steps onto her porch only to be met by a crackling sound, the kind that comes from crinkled pages.

There is the smallest twinge of unease in her stomach.

Lifting her foot and looking down, she finds a standard yellow package envelope. Flicking her eyes back up the street, she checks for anything unusual, anything in a suit with dark hair and blue eyes but finds nothing.

Slowly she bends down, eyes never ceasing their relentless scanning, and picks up the package. It's light, durable, and blank. Not addressed to her and no return address. Hand delivered. By someone that knows she lives here. Gripping the package a little tighter than necessary, Lisa backs into her house, shuts the door, and feels the deadbolt clunk into place.

Returning the table, rapidly-cooling breakfast forgotten, Lisa considers the package. She places it on the table before her, looks at it for some time, and then picks it up once more. She flips it over and regards the seal for several moments.

The apprehension in her stomach doubles.

 _Deep breaths Leese, you can do it._

She shakes his voice from her mind, and blowing a rogue curl out of her face, Lisa slides her finger beneath the seal of the package and empties its contents onto the table.

There are several moments in Lisa's life that have come proved pivotal, moments like a parking lot, a Tex-Mex bar, a red eye flight. This moment also happens to be one of them.

The last time she had seen the blue zombie-top pen, it had been sticking out of _his_ throat. Yet here it is, anonymous and unassuming, and sitting on her coffee table.

Except this time, instead of being accompanied by the creamy throat and rich raspy voice, there is a crisp square-cut, snow-white business card with seven words. Just seven little harmless words in Times New Roman, that when put into this particular order, cause her heart to pump shards of ice through her veins instead of blood.

 _He never existed._

 _But they do._

 _Run._

Lisa jumps to her feet, races to the front door, and throws it open. She leaps onto the porch just in time to see a black sedan with tinted windows turn left out at the end of her street.

She feels the telltale prick of eyes on her skin.

She doesn't see the dark silver Lexus.

Or the black Mercedes.

With each beat of her heart, images flash in her mind: a thick mop of dark hair; five 'o clock shadow; full cupid-bow lips; eyes as fathomless as the sky.

That velvet voice, dark and deep.

 _Leese._

No. He's dead.

The thought drags her back to reality. She slams the door and turns on autopilot. She goes to her room and takes out the duffle bag she purchased seven months before, glad she hadn't listened to that little voice inside her head that screamed paranoia.

In less than five minutes she is packed.

If someone had told Lisa Reisert a year ago that she could reduce her life to clothes, toiletries, money, a burner phone, and a gun, she probably would have laughed, and definitely incredulously at the mention of a firearm. Now though, as she checks the safety on her .9mm Glock 19, zips up her duffle, and hoists it onto her shoulder, there is nothing but a solid sense of determination and the low current of urgency coursing through her veins.

Grabbing her keys, she locks her door behind her and slides into her car. Despite the thunderous tattoo of her heart, she feels ready.

Insane as it is, this is the day she has been waiting for. This is the proof.

She drives for ten minutes or so and pulls into her supermarket parking lot. Locking the car behind her and slinging the duffle over her shoulder, Lisa chucks her keys into the nearby skip and walks out of her half life and into her new one.

A whole world away, a newspaper remains next to untouched breakfast, the ring of a coffee mug marring a headline in the bottom corner:

'New Theory on Identity of Infamous Jack the Ripper: a Keeper? More on Page 12.'

* * *

Had to re-upload the prologue because of some errors but hopefully everything's fixed now. And hey look! A chapter! Can't believe this story is actually going! Keen as a bean for the next one! Hoping to get it finished soon :) Until then x


	3. Chapter 2

Okie dokie, sorry for the wait folks! Life gets in the way, the usual. At this stage I don't have an editor so any mistakes (which hopefully there aren't any! Or at least not _too_ many!) are mine :) Hope you're enjoying so far! Thank you lovely people who've reviewed! Onwards! xx

* * *

 **Today**

 **September 3rd 2006 (Cont.)**

 **0830**

Special Agent Blair knows it's gone too far. It's been a month. A whole month since he started with the excuse that it would just be a week or two. He's sitting parked on the street just down from her house in clothes two days gone with a barbecue-sauce stain on the tie hanging limply from his collar.

Pathetic just doesn't quite cover it.

He looks down at his phone, which has now beeped six times in the past three minutes. He's dangerously close to just turning the damn thing off, but his partner will be _pissed._ Hell hath no fury like a certain Very Special (Senior) Agent.

The worst part is he just kinda sorta _doesn't give a flying fuck_.

Yeah, it's gone _way_ too far. He has to end this. Now. Before he starts acting on those totally wack urges.

He glances back up at her house and nearly blares the horn in surprise because she's _right there_. Standing on her freaking porch. He shuffles in his seat, finds his scope under his ass, and brings it to his eye.

She looks… confused. But alert. Wary. Like one part of her is looking for something and the other part is just waiting for it to happen.

 _Which is it Lisa? What are you waiting for? What are you expecting?_

 _Or is it a_ who _?_

And… is that a letter-opener in her hand?

She scans one end of the street and then the other, and he sends up a little hallelujah to the Big Guys in Suits who had the foresight to make sure all company vehicles had tinted windows. She bends down out of sight and when she comes back up she's holding a yellow post package.

How the fuck did he miss the postie? What is he even _doing_ here if he missed the fucking mailman?

She takes one more look, sweeping up and down the street, then steps back inside. He needs to know what's in that package – his case might hinge on it.

 _What is it Lisa? Information? Evidence?_

 _What are you hiding?_

His phone beeps again, somehow more insistent than the last.

Enough is enough. There's no way he can put off the inevitable any longer. He'll have to come back later – after Lawson's ripped him a new one for not answering his damn phone. The mystery of the package and it's recipient will have to wait.

He puts his car into gear and pulls out, but glances back at her house in the rear vision mirror as he nears the end of her street.

She's there and his heart explodes in his mouth. His foot – in shock? of it's own accord? – slams the peddle to the metal and he swerves left out of her street.

It takes him the sixteen minutes home, a cold shower, and a fresh tie before he can stop thinking about her–

Case. Her case. The case. He tries not to think about the case.

 **Today**

 **September 3rd 2006 (Cont.)**

 **1.30pm**

Five thousand dollars cash, three busses, and two trains later and Lisa has only just started to find threads of peace in the fabric of distance. The scenery blurs into two singular stretches of grass and sky. Yet, despite putting her alarm heart on snooze, she's yet to sleep since ditching her car the morning before.

That is, until she finds herself jerking awake. The shadow flits just out the corner of her vision but it's not what frightens her: the scent that lingers – the sharp crisp scent she occasionally finds in dreams of blue eyes and Tex-Mex Bars – sends her heart drumming in her throat. She scans the train car but nothing jumps out. No one jumps out. No monsters with handsome faces and strong hands. Still, she pulls the duffle closer and slips her hand inside. The freezing metal helps calm the raging storm behind her eyes.

She gets off at the next stop. She isn't meant to; it's earlier than she has planned. She tells herself it's a tactical decision that has nothing to do with lithe shadows and lilting voices.

 _You know Leese, if you can't even admit it to yourself, who's left?_

She shoves his voice back into the box in her head, the one she doesn't touch – the one she will swear up and down doesn't exist in a god damn church if she has to.

One last bus and Lisa Reisert walks into Craig's Rental Car Agency as if she's done this a thousand times before. Five minutes later, 'Jane Adams' walks out on schedule with the keys to Nissan Versa and an inward promise to never deal with sleazy car salesmen ever again.

She drives to the next town and pulls in at the first motel she sees. A hundred and fifty cash, plus an extra hundred, gets her a room and anonymity. Perfectly discreet.

Once in her room, she ignores the faint but pervasive musty air and lies on the bed.

 _This is actually happening._

Lisa sits up and tries to stop the thoughts clamouring in her mind.

 _It's ok. You're ok. You just need food._

She sniffs.

 _Ok, and a shower. Pronto._

She checks the door is locked twice before setting the duffel on the bed and taking out her toiletries. The shower takes at least six minutes to actually heat up but when it does, the water slowly eases the knots from her back. It's so good, she finds herself moaning out loud. She claps her hand over her mouth. Waits.

 _What are you waiting for Leese?_

"Nothing."

 _You sure?_

Shaking him out of her head and the water out of her hair, she steps out into her towel. Once dressed, she puts her purse, the keys to the motel, and the gun into her bag. She wonders if the world changes around her or with her. Two minutes total and she's out the door, making sure it's locked twice, stomach grumbling and mouth watering for a cheeseburger.

She feels…lighter. She's not stupid – she's nowhere near safe yet. But she's on her way. The thought brings a smile to her face and on a whim she turns on the radio.

"…And that was _I Will Steal You Back_ by Jimmy Eat World. Your listening to RXC Radio 1, your number one hit station! I'm Ellie G and this is our Your Choice of Voice hour! Coming up a bit later we've got a treat for you! But first, a little _Behind Blue Eyes_ for a good friend of ours out there, we hope you're listening _–"_

Lisa nearly smashes the radio as she turns it off. She pulls in at the next diner.

 **September 3rd 2006**

 **2300**

He lost her. He fucking lost her.

He got the memo at thirteen hundred and has been working the scraps Lisa Reisert left ever since.

He's so furious, he now can't tell who he's more mad at: himself or Lisa Reisert. Because what was she thinking? That the FBI wouldn't _notice_? That she could just high-tail it out of town and no one would _give_ a damn?

Well her dad did, but now he's almost as tight-lipped as his perpetually-constipated-looking attorney.

He knows it's only a matter of time – there's a bolo out on her car and it's not like she's some kind of Jason Bourne – but still he keeps finding himself teetering on the simmering edge of panic. Blair runs his hands through his hair. He knows it has something to do with the contents of that bloody package she got that morning – they'd searched her whole house and found nothing but her unfinished breakfast, a newspaper and the empty yellow packaging. It had been tagged, bagged, and taken to forensics but no one held much hope. He wanders around after the techs cleared the scene, nearly out of his mind because here he is, finally in her house, and it's all gone to shit. The worst part is her home is perfect, absolutely perfectly immaculate – the problem being that her perfectly immaculate home has only made picking up her trail harder. Virtually everything is untouched: suitcase still in her cupboard; clothes still in drawers and on hangers; toothbrush, toothpaste, and toiletries all in perfect order in the bathroom. To the untrained eye, nothing was out of order.

But Blair knows, knows it like he knows his unit is starting to talk. About him.

His mess. His clean-up. His ass on the line.

 _Where did you_ go, _Lisa?_

 _Did something make you run?_

 _Or someone?_

His phone buzzes.

"Blair."

Beat.

"Where?" He grabs his coat and keys in one fluid movement and slides into his car, "I'm on my way."

He doesn't notice the dark silver Lexus that follows casually three cars behind.

* * *

WEEOO. So, this is my first real foray into crime/thriller/adventure/action/mystery/big plot sort of writing (I'm usually more of a poetic/feelings/character study type so this is preeeeetty big) and I hope y'all are liking it! Let me know your thoughts!

Until next time xx


	4. Chapter 3

Just a short one I know, but things are starting to kick into gear now – I'm excited! And still hoping everything's ok! (big plots are scary!) Thanks again for reading and reviewing and alerting and such! You guys are totally the best! xx

* * *

 **September 4th 2006**

 **4.06pm**

Lisa Reisert is a lot of things: highly organised, very polite, and sometimes surprising. Over the past year she's become other things: suspicious, cautious, patient. However, there is one thing Lisa Reisert is not, and that is crazy.

Which is why she's starting to get sick of feeling like she _is_ crazy.

After the incident with the radio the day before, other things start… happening. She's talking to the waitress at a diner, a sweet blonde with a heart dotting the 'i' in 'Katie' on her name tag, when a customer repeatedly and rudely dings the bell for service. Katie rolls her eyes and says with smile, "As soon as I'm getting off work tonight honey, you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna treat myself to a nice bay breeze." Then there's the college kid doing sudoku behind the counter at the gas station who notices her staring at his blue novelty monster pen, laughs and says "I know it's for kids, but I just really love Frankenstein." And the woman that bumps into her in the carpark, who only does so because her head is stuck in Dr. Phil's latest miracle book. Or any of the hundred other weird coincidences in the past twenty-four hours that have made her question her sanity.

Lisa growls in frustration, checks the motel door again, strips off and climbs into the bed.

Tomorrow, she moves on.

 **September 5th 2006**

 **0900 hours**

"Nothing? You've got to be kidding me." Blair struggles to keep his composure, all the while struggling with the insane urge to punch Officer Lee Brown – responsible for calling in the bolo – in the face.

"Looks that way." Officer Brown shrugs in a 'what're yah gonna do?' kind of way, completely oblivious to the mental fists directed his way. "The camera facing this direction is just a dummy to dissuade petty thieves. There are any number of places she could have gone from here – she could be hiding out with friends or she might not even be in town anymore. Unfortunately, the possibilities are endless. Sorry we couldn't be of more help." Officer Brown seems to finally get a sense of the unspoken animosity directed his way and clears his throat, "My unit's happy to canvas the area with her photo though, see if anyone saw her?"

Blair breathes out through his nose and focuses on sounding less wrathful and more grateful, "Yeah, that'd be really helpful, thanks." He turns to the agents hovering at his left, "We have to narrow down search parameters. Stevens, find a list of all her known friends, family, colleagues, associates, acquaintances, hell – even people she might have bumped into at a supermarket. We need to rebuild Lisa Reisert's life and make sure we haven't missed anything, not a single variable. Take Jefferson with you and keep me posted."

The agents vanish, nothing but darting shadows on warm concrete. Lawson's broad-shouldered shadow takes their place. "You need to keep your head kiddo or we'll never find her. I know you've got something vested in this – I've never seen you this caught in a case. Just–" he sighs, his shadow shakes it's head, "Just don't lose yourself, ok?"

But Blair isn't listening – he's staring at the bus stop at the end of the street and the red-haired woman standing there, an idea slowly forming out of the jigsaw puzzle pieces.

 **September 5th 2006**

 **12.04pm**

She wakes later than planned and blames the heat, but the sleep seems to have dimmed the growing sense of panic (and insanity). Checking the duffle, Lisa realises she'll need some more supplies before she can leave, so she heads to the market.

She ignores the feeling she can't quite put her finger on – puts it down to just feeling antsy at staying too long.

As she leaves the blissful cool of the supermarket, Lisa actually feels herself being blown back by the wave of heat. It reminds her of the time she once tried tequila – like she'd swallowed hundreds of thousands of tiny suns. Right now it's as if those same suns are concentrated on her head. She steels herself: only a couple more metres and she'll be at her car and then it's only a few more moments before the oasis of air-con. She catches sight of herself in the supermarket window and stops. In the window's reflection, her hair looks like fire: tendrils of dancing flames flickering in the hot breeze and the hints of gold are almost as bright as the glinting cars behind her.

She feels that telltale prick of eyes on her skin. Her throat seizes. Her muscles prepare for her inevitable flight reflex.

She watches the man leaning against a car. She'd know that slouch anywhere.

 _Great_ , she thought, _now I'm hallucinating._

 _What if I'm not a hallucination Leese? What would you do?_

What would she do? Scream? Cry? Run?

Again?

 _Would you shoot me Leese?_

... Again?

Her heart stutters. She blinks the stinging sweat from her eyes and turns around.

The man is gone.

* * *

Okie dokie, a familiar face is back in the next one (you totally know which one! ;) ) and things can start moving! Keen as a bean! Stay tuned xx


	5. Chapter 4

**UPDATE 30.12.16 I've made a few edits to this chapter and included another section that I forgot to put in. Sorry! More updates coming soon kittens so stay tuned! 3 Your reviews are lovely**

* * *

 **September 5th 2006**

 **2.55pm**

Lisa's driven another two towns over and the distance makes her feel safer. She pulls into the Motel Vista, orders her usual privacy with a side of anonymity, bundles herself into her new home for the next twenty-four hours and crashes into an exhausted, dusty sleep.

 **September 5th**

 **1700 hours**

The call comes through just as his desk-clock clicks over. 'Sir? We've found something.'

Intense relief courses through Special Agent Blair. 'I'll be right down.'

He's been waiting at his desk at the insistence of Agent Aiden Lyle, the Head of Computer Forensics in the FBI's Comic-Con – so dubbed, because other than said convention, nowhere else is there a group of nerds this large. Short, with sandy, dandruff hair and an unfortunate propensity to wear too much cologne, Lyle apparently can't handle Blair's particular "brand of pressure", which allegedly includes pacing, huffing, and asking for updates every forty-five seconds. Blair admits, albeit reluctantly, to two out of three – he does not "huff". He only agrees to leave when Agent Santiago promises to call him the moment they found something.

At 5'5, with thick curly hair and eyes like dark honey, Agent Rhea Santiago is a force to be reckoned with. One of those child-prodigies, she has two PHD's – engineering and computer sciences respectively – and is currently working on her third, all at the tender age of twenty-five. With a wickedly sharp tongue that's matched only by her lightning-fast intellect, there are rumours around the office that the FBI specifically hired her _,_ out of countless others, so she wouldn't hack them. And although superior to him in every way, Agent Rhea Santiago is also technically Aiden Lyle's assistant.

Apparently, some of the FBI higher-ups are under the impression it's still 1962.

Now, after he flew down the stairs instead of the too-slow elevator from the seventies, Special Agent Blair tries not to breathe fire as Lyle wastes the precious moments he could be updating Blair by attempting to straighten his perpetually-skewed tie. 'So, we uh, we picked up her trail from the bus station near where you found her car, followed her for three buses, two trains, before we lost her again. For the past couple hours, we've been combing through bus and train station security footage–' leaving Blair to go (quietly) nuts upstairs, '–And I gotta tell you, I was starting to lose it a little!' He snort-laughs and Blair has the pleasure of watching Santiago roll her eyes.

'But we got her man! She took another bus! It's taken some time, but after a steady process of elimination, we give you – drumroll please!' Lyle glances up at the look on Blair' face, swallows, and wordlessly taps a few keys. Blair's pleased to see him wipe a few beads of sweat from his high forehead.

On the large monitor, a grainy greyscale video shows a woman crossing a street, then cuts to another angle with the same woman entering a small building. 'Craig's' is written above the door.

Before Lyle can begin sucking up all the oxygen in the room, Saint Santiago hands Blair a file. 'It's a car rental agency and we got the plate. We tracked her for way too many miles, man – girl can move faster than my aunt Lola at a wedding – but we got her. Right now this car is parked at the Motel Vista. Hasn't moved. Get there fast though, she's flighty. She'll be moving on soon.'

Blair unabashedly beams at her, 'You're a gift to this earth, Santiago.'

She smirks, 'Tell that to the higher-ups and get me my raise.'

'Workin' on it!' Blair calls as he practically sprints out the door, purposefully ignoring Lyle's 'Hey! Me too!'

 **September 5th 2006**

 **6.55pm**

When Lisa wakes, it's nearly seven in the evening and her mouth is a desert. The room still feels like an oven and she can literally feel the layer of grime on her skin. Lisa can't take much more of the dry heat. She's gotten too used to the humidity of Miami – being away from the ocean is like being on another planet. Almost as bad as Dallas.

She feels the same slow grief she always does when a thought about her grandmother catches her unaware.

She decides she needs some ice, mostly for her sanity, and she's about to leave without her purse – the ice cooler is opposite her room – but the tightening of her gut changes her mind. She slings her it over her shoulder, feels the weight of the gun, and locks the door behind her.

Despite the heat, Lisa has to admit it is a beautiful night. The sky here is clear and wide. She's never seen so many stars, always lived in cities polluted by lights. It reminds her of being with Henrietta, and as she loads the ice into the bucket, she slowly feels the tension leak out of her shoulders. Feeling pleased with herself and her instincts, she heads back to her room.

Murphy's Law is a bitch and she really should know better by now.

She locks the door, turns around, and drops the bucket. Ice skitters across the polyester-carpet floor. The scream that tries to claw its way up her throat is choked by the furious pounding of her heart.

The realisation hits her like a semi.

"If you do manage to scream Leese, make it a good one."

That voice.

"Nothing? Wow, I gotta say Leese, I'm a bit disappointed. After our last meeting, I expected a lot more. Though, I guess it _has_ been a year." He pauses and she can almost taste what's coming, can feel it in the air like a storm. "Did you miss me Leese?"

She's going to be sick.

He's not real, can't be real.

 _Oh, I'm real alright Leese._

She blinks, furiously trying to dispel the hallucination. Nothing happens. Bile sears her throat but words come out instead. "You're dead."

A chuckle in the dark."I'd say I look pretty good for dead, wouldn't you agree Leese?"

She wants to scream at him to stop calling her that but nothing comes out. Silence stretches her taut like wire. She can barely breathe, has to remind herself she needs to breathe.

 _Breathe, think, stay alive._

"You're awfully quiet for someone who's just discovered their nightmare is alive and well. You going to tell me what's bumping around in that pretty head of yours Leese?"

 _Yeah Leese, why don't you tell me?_

"No." Such a small simple word and yet it hangs in the air between them, holding the entire weight of their history. He laughs again, a soft release of breath in the shape of a smile.

He stands slowly, and she can't work out if it's the kind of slow used by those wanting to help wounded animals or the deadly kind of a predator closing in on its prey. He flicks the bedside lamp on and weak, yellow light turns the bed into an island surrounded by a pool of shadow.

Something is wrong, and strangely, it isn't that he is alive when he should be dead. Nor is it the fact that she feels an intense sense of relief amidst the sheer terror rapidly coursing through her – she'd deal with _that_ later. Instead, the unsettling _feeling_ is recognising the differences between That Jackson and This Jackson: the unmistakable fatigue in his features; jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket instead of the clean-cut blazer, button-up, and trousers; stubble shadowing the chiseled jaw; lines she knows weren't there before. The only parts of him unchanged are his eyes – the same fathomless blue, marred only by the shadows beneath them.

This is not the Jackson she knew. This is not the rasping monster of her nightmares, nor the Tex-Mex gentleman of her dreams. This is an entirely new man. Perhaps this was the one hiding beneath the other exteriors all along.

Lisa doesn't know what to do with this sort of man.

"Ok Leese, before you pull that cute little Glock 19 out of your purse and finish what you started last year, there are a few things you need to know."

He stands and she fights (unsuccessfully) the urge to flinch. "First and foremost, despite our colourful history, I am not here to kill you."

She doesn't believe him.

He smiles, a brief quirk of lips, and runs a hand through his hair – like he's some nervous prom date, not the man who tried to kill her. "I know, I know, you don't believe me. Can we skip the boring 'how are you alive' or 'you're full of shit and I don't trust you' or 'you psychotic monster' exclamations and skip straight to the good stuff?"

Is he joking?

He takes a step toward her and she feels her back hit the door behind her, curses at her flight response. "I didn't just show up here for a quick catch up."

Nope, not joking.

"You know why I'm here, don't you Leese?" His voice is like velvet, dark and infinite. "I'm here to collect."

She doesn't breathe a word, doesn't meet his eyes. Frantic fingers search for the lock of the door behind her. A bead of sweat slides down her neck.

"Because, given our current circumstances, you and I are now technically on the same side."

Current circumstances? What the actual fuck? He wouldn't be here, unless–

Shock collides with the already adrenaline-fuelled cocktail flooding her nervous system.

He watches as it dawns on her, and grins. "That's right Leese, I'm here to steal you."

Lisa head-butts him, throws open the door, and runs–


	6. Chapter 5

Eeeek. I know. It's been a while. Sorry! Life got in the way. Here's the next chapter. Hopefully going to upload a bit more regularly! Fingers crossed! Enjoy the next instalment!  
 **ALSO THIS IS IMPORTANT:** there's been an edit to the last chapter, so just go back one and peruse before continuing! Sorry! Hopefully that's the only continuity mistake I make *fingers crossed*

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 **September 5th 2006**

 **7.05pm**

–straight into a giant's chest. Murphy's law – anything that can go wrong, will – all 6ft 4in and 180 pounds of it, knocks the wind out of her and throws her back onto her ass. Before she can even comprehend pulling herself together or fighting the black stars swarming her vision, a pair of tree-trunk arms enfold her and – in less than two strides – dump her unceremoniously on the bed. She manages one last glimpse above the Giant's shoulders of ice-blue eyes and then a black wave crashes over her, sweeping consciousness away.

 **September 5th 2006**

 **7.06pm**

'She's a real riot, this one.' Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Genevieve peers down at Leese. In the twelve years he's known her, Genevieve Beauchamp has never sounded anything other than utterly bored. Her unique ability to inject deadpan-sarcasm into everything she says is one of the things he usually enjoys about her company. Right now, however, he's not in the mood.

'There's no need for commentary,' he glances as the watch on his wrist. 'Wipe this place down and collect her things – we've been here too long as it is.'

Genevieve snorts, 'Wonder who's fault that is?' At his icy look, she rolls her eyes, takes the large band from her wrist and uses it to bind her dreads into a large bun. She picks up her supplies, looks directly at him and sighs, before disappearing into the bathroom.

He shakes his head at her dramatics and turns to Mathieu, 'Load her bag and start the engine. It's time to go.' The enormous Haitian nods, picks up Leese's meagre belongings, and vanishes into the night. He never could quite understand how Mathieu, someone so physically _massive_ he often had to bend to fit through doorways, could make so little noise.

His eyes wander back to the unconscious thorn-in-his-side on the bed. How their worlds have become so entwined is beyond him. He tends not to put much stock in fate, but their situation is too outlandish not to. He brushes the loose tendril of fire from her face and back into the mass of curls spilling on the pillow.

Bad idea.

He shoves his hand in his pocket.

His forehead still smarts from her spontaneous head-butt. Thought if he's honest with himself, he really should've seen that one coming. He grins. There may also be a little bit of pride swelling in his chest. She did, after all, learn from the best.

'Everything's done – we're good to go. Mathieu's waiting out front. Did you want him to carry her?' Genevieve rips her gloves off, shoves them in the trash bag she's carrying, and ties it up.

He shakes his head, 'I've got her.'

Wordlessly, Genevieve strides past him – but not without boring two holes into the back of his head with her dark eyes.

He bends, slides his arms beneath Leese, and lifts. She makes a soft noise and tucks her head in the small space between his shoulder and his chin. He looks down at her, and can't quite quell the surge of feeling that rushes through his veins. It feels like–

No. Better not to name it.

 **September 6th**

 **8.52am**

Lisa wakes cocooned in the scent of sandalwood and ylang-ylang. She's on a bed – a ridiculously _comfortable_ bed – and she reminds herself to write down the name of the motel she's staying in, because clearly it's the best.

Something clunks around in her memory. Slowly she becomes aware of a throbbing ache at her hairline. She brushes tentative fingers over her forehead and hisses when a shard of pain lances through her skull.

The white-heat clears the remaining fog and the events of the night before comes rushing back. She bolts upright.

This isn't a motel because she's not in her motel anymore. She's not in her motel, because Jackson Rippner is–

 _Jackson Rippner is alive._

She leaps out of the bed like it's on fire and glances wildly around the room. A couple of bookshelves, a dresser, an ensuite, and a door. She strides over to the latter, convinced she's about to meet a locked dead-end when, like some miracle, it opens. Yet she pauses, unsure now. Because, if everything that occurred the night before _is_ actually real – and she is, in fact once _again_ , the prisoner of Jackson _Freaking_ Rippner – then why would the door be unlocked? Suspicion slithers like rattlesnakes beneath her skin, lifts the hairs on the back of her neck.

In front of her is a hallway leading to a set of stairs. Treading as lightly as possible, she makes it to the staircase without so much as a creak on the wooden boards. She waits at the top, not daring to breathe, and listens.

Nothing.

 _It's now or never Leese._

Tentatively, she slips down the stairs one at a time until finally she steps down onto the last one. The only thing louder than the god-awful creak it makes is the outrageous pounding of her heart. She waits for an alarm to sound, the running footsteps, the inevitable head-butt…

Nothing. Except–

"Bacon?" She whispers to herself. It's all she can do not to burst into hysterical, nervous-laughter. The sudden smell of breakfast cooking makes her stomach rumble alarmingly. Now that her hunger has her paying attention, she notices the sounds coming from the room across the hall: the occasional clinks of cutlery and crockery, the hiss of a frying pan, the pop of a toaster, the whistle of a kettle. Her mouth waters.

Tip-toeing across the corridor to the open doorway, she leans her back against the wall, and considers the following predicaments:

The front door is at the end of this hall, but she has to pass by the open doorway to get to it.

She has no idea _where_ she is. So, if by some miracle she _does_ make it to the door, there's no guarantee she'll be able to get far enough away before _he_ inevitably gives chase.

She's really, _really_ freaking hungry.

She gnaws on her lip, debating her options. Her stomach rumbles again. Screw it, she's run from him before, she can do it again. Improvising is, after all, apparently her thing. She psyches herself up and gets ready to run, when–

'Leese! So nice of you to join us!'

She stops dead, heart in her mouth. How does he _know_? He can't possible see her and she didn't make any noise. Why does he _always_ have to be two steps ahead? Anger tightens the ache of hunger.

'Good timing too, Leese – I've just made breakfast.' She can actually _hear_ him smiling.

 _Well come one Leese, what are you waiting for? An invitation?_

She takes a deep breath and turns the corner. All thought flies from her mind. 'What the–'

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I know I know, _another_ cliffhanger. Please don't hate me! Thank you also to everyone who has reviewed! Y'all are so kind! Please feel free to keep doing so! 3


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